By Pete Kotz
By Michael Musto
By Michael Musto
By Capt. James Van Thach told to Jonathan Wei
By Kera Bolonik
By Michael Musto
By Nick Pinto
By Steve Weinstein
The last swingers' party I went to was about four years ago in a converted office space of an industrial park outside Boston. While I did end up hooking up with an attractive professional couple, I wasn't dying to become a regular in that world. Swingers seemed too straight, too male-dominated, and too suburban to intrigue me. I never thought of the current generation of wife swappers as queer or kinky enough for my tastes. Recently, I was invited to a swingers' party in a suburb of the city I was visiting, and decided to give "the lifestyle" (as those in it like to call it) another shot.
When my friend and I drove through the gates of the property, the parking lot was full, so we got a spot far away from the main house. When I stepped out of the car, I heard the unmistakable crunch of gravel beneath my feet. Great, I thought, a lot full of rocks and me in my six-inch patent leather stripper shoes.
"The gentlemanly thing to do would be to carry me all the way to the door," I said to my companion.
"How about a piggyback ride?" he replied.
So I hiked up my dress around my hips, jumped on his back, and wrapped my legs around his waist. I prayed the whole way there that we wouldn't run into anyonea piggyback ride was not my idea of a good first impression. Inside the heavy wooden front door, I informed the guy at the front desk that we were guests of the couple who had invited us.
Swingers' parties allow only single women or couples to attend, and by swinger definition, a couple is a man and a woman. This was an interesting dilemma since my date was a trannie boy (a female-to-male transgender person). I hadn't bothered to inquire on the phone about the policy for trannie boys and the women who love themI was pretty sure there wouldn't be one. I thought we would arrive and present ourselves as we see ourselves. The manager looked at my friend's ID for quite a while, maybe because he looks 17 (he's 23) or because the first name I used to introduce him does not match the one on his driver's license or because the gender on his ID would technically make us a dyke couple, which we are not.
"It's $60," he finally said. We were in.
A short fellow wearing gray silk pajamas was our designated tour guide, and we followed him to the dining area (where, under a table, two men were being treated to after-dinner blowjobs), which was just past the dancefloor. A single guy with a guitar and a laptop belted out covers of everything from Stevie Wonder to ZZ Top. We proceeded on the tour. The place was packed with people ranging in age from 20 to 60, who looked like they could be at my cousin's wedding with one important exception: the women wore peekaboo teddies and garters, and some of the men were in towels. Those towels were for the indoor pool (too chilly to take a dip in the one outside), where several naked folks frolicked, and the nearby jacuzzi, so full it looked like there was more flesh than water in the tub. We passed a locker room, a fireplace with people lounging around it, and a large sectional couch facing a wide-screen TV playing porno. The size of the house was impressive, its modest, resort-like decadence felt warm, inviting, and very conducive to sexual play. These people were obviously serious about swinging.
We stopped at a spiral staircase, where two signs read, "No Street Clothes" and "No Single Men." Our guide explained that no strip-down was necessary since we were on a tour. We headed up the stairs, and walked past room after room, each with mattresses, most with piles of people going at ittangles of breasts, hands, asses, cocks, all moving to the sounds of grunts and groans. Now we're talking, I thought to myself.
"No unaccompanied guys are allowed up here, so," he turned to my friend, "you can only come up here with her or another woman." We both nodded to convey our understanding.
"But, if you wanted to bring like five guys up here to do them all, well, you could do that, as long as they all stayed with you at all times." I smiled. "And if he had to go to the bathroom, he could go up here, but then he would have to make a beeline right back to you, no wandering around by himself." I loved these rules: It was like we were on some island of Amazons where men weren't allowed to roam free. Works for me.
After our tour, we went up to the balcony that overlooked the dancefloor to indulge in some old-fashioned voyeurism. There was plenty of tits touching tits, but absolutely no man-on-man handlingnot surprising since in most swinger circles, there's a double standard about homo desire. Well, they may be uptight about men boinking each other, but they have no qualms about nudity. As the night went on, everyone was half-naked or completely bare (hey, it does take the guesswork out of the equation), and we felt like the most overdressed couple there. I would have been up for swinging with someone while bringing my friend along and explaining, "He's shy, he just wants to watch," but it seemed like all the sex was going on in that third-floor area, and up there you had to be pretty much naked. What's a girl and her trannie boy to do?
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